The Master of Confessions (8 page)

Duch had no illusions about his own fate. “I knew it was only a matter of time before I would be arrested.”

During the trial's preliminary investigative phase, Duch makes a point of emphasizing the appalling absurdity of the system in which he was caught:

Yet despite waiting for his own end, Duch's zeal never flagged; he continued to write damning reports about his own subordinates. In no sense could any of them have been described as his protégés.

“Were you aware that your reports meant that these members of your staff would be ‘smashed'?”

“I knew that the decision would be made to arrest them,” replies Duch evasively.

“That's not a straight answer, but it doesn't really matter,” says Judge Lavergne.

Secrecy, fear, and obedience were omnipresent; there was no questioning authority: “I am alive because of my loyal obedience. I never hid anything. Honesty and a commitment to doing things correctly are why I survived. Other survivors probably share these same qualities.”

The final quality required by the Khmer Rouge was enthusiasm. There was no better precaution than fervor—a revolutionary cannot, by definition, be lukewarm—and Duch's passion was exemplary. He bent over backward to please his superiors and completed every task assigned to him with the utmost devotion. Judge Cartwright asks him: “People say that you were more enthusiastic than you needed to be. In other words, you did more than was necessary to stay alive. Do you have anything to say about that?”

In psychology, “ambivalence” is a state where two conflicting notions exist within the same person. Not at the same moment (that's ambiguity), but rather almost consecutively. Everyone is capable of it. As one's sense of disgust grows, then, so, too, can one's zeal for the job.

“We cannot live long in an ambivalent situation,” the psychologist expert witness tells the court.

Yet that wasn't the case with Duch. He managed to adapt.

FOR THE PROSECUTION,
the extent of the extermination can't be blamed entirely on the Politburo's policies. Duch made his own contribution.

“One could say that the purges were driven by the methodology used to search for enemies, which was developed and enforced by the accused,” says the expert witness Craig Etcheson.

“How was the methodology used by Duch different from the line imposed by the Party? How was it his own personal initiative?” asks François Roux, Duch's French lawyer, who systematically refutes this thread of the prosecution's argument.

“Did he have a choice?”

“One always has choices in life,” says the academic, a little haughtily.

“And yet you agree with me that today Duch is still alive?” says the lawyer, clearly very irritated.

“Yes, he is.”

The historian David Chandler is more careful. Once the regime of death and terror became a daily reality for everyone living under the Khmer Rouge, perhaps they no longer had a choice, he suggests. “It's most unlikely that if these decisions were made at the top, that dissent would have come from the middle ranks; it began to roll on once the decisions had been made.”

He hesitates, takes a breath, rubs his face.

When Etcheson is on the stand, the prosecutor tries to come to the rescue: “I would not wish an impression to be left that there [were] only two choices for a Communist Party cadre—death or duty. Perhaps to complete the picture, the expert should be asked whether he knows of a third way—namely, escape?”

However, under the Khmer Rouge tyranny, only a few thousand Cambodians fled to Vietnam, estimates Chandler. The Vietnamese border was more porous and the refugees were well-received. A few hundred others fled toward Thailand, where they were hardly welcome. All in all, then, only a tiny number of people escaped. And one had to live near a border in the first place.

None of the witnesses state that escape was possible. The country and all of its citizens were being closely monitored. The guard Him Huy, like Suor Thi before him, articulates the twin threats that paralyzed everybody at the time: “Even if I had tried to escape from S-21, I would've been arrested. I was sure of it. Where would I go? To enemy territory? I would've been arrested on the spot. And if I was arrested, or if I fled, what would have happened to my family and loved ones?”

E
VEN BY THE STANDARDS OF A REGIME
that banned fallow fields, rest, and recreation, Duch was an exceptionally hard worker. By his own estimate, he sifted through some 200,000 pages of prisoner confessions. He had a peerless command of the many interrogation techniques required of him, including the use of subterfuge, charm, deception, bluffing, intimidation, chastising, punishment, analysis, and summary. Duch saw interrogation as a fascinating and exciting game, even if it was one-sided and fixed. He saw it as an opportunity to apply his intellect, exercise his influence, and win favor with his superiors.

Duch offers the court a glimpse of his skills when he describes the interrogation of Koy Thuon, a very high-ranking member of the Central Committee. First and foremost, he says, it was vital to prevent the prisoner from committing suicide, to which end two guards were posted permanently in his cell. A telephone line was installed so that Duch could be contacted at the first sign of a problem. Duch made sure the prisoner slept well and that he was served the same food as Duch. Upon hearing that Koy Thuon hadn't responded to questions for an hour or two, Duch went to the prison himself and interrogated the cadre leader one-on-one. Rather than use the diminutive prefix
a-
, which he and the guards used to deride the low-ranking prisoners, Duch addressed Koy Thuon as “Brother.” When the mighty fall from grace, they get a little respect prior to being tortured and killed. “Koy Thuon was quick to react. Sometimes he would break a pen or a glass. I'd let him calm down, smile, and say, ‘You have no choice but to send your confession to the Party through me.' And he understood.”

Koy Thuon also grasped what he would endure if he didn't talk. After two interrogation sessions, Duch handed the prisoner over to his right-hand man, Pon, because he “didn't want to be involved any further.” Pon had more persuasive methods, as Koy Thuon would soon learn. Pon was a chief interrogator with an “excellent command” of violence, says Duch. In other words, he was very good at torturing people without killing them. The confession of the great fallen revolutionary Koy Thuon ran more than seven hundred pages.

Once a confession had been extracted from a prisoner, Duch's task was to make life easier for his superiors. To that end, like any good chief of staff, he wrote helpful and cogent notes that let them read through confessions quickly.

“My notes simply tried to help my superiors grasp the substance of the confession,” he says.

Duch is the master of confessions and, in his heart of hearts, proud of it. But he seems unwilling to admit the deceit that underlies his success. In other words, he doesn't see that all those confessions he compiled were born of terror and torture. He doesn't see how the climate of fear and the use of torture make his accomplishments deceitful and spineless.

At one point during the pretrial investigation, Duch seemed almost lucid when he told investigators: “I don't see what purpose confessions such as Tiv Ol's could have served.”

“Tiv Ol was a teacher of literature, yet his confession had no purpose. What does that mean?”

“Do you think each confession served a purpose? We wanted truthful confessions. But they weren't confessing the truth.”

“True or not true—what does that mean?”

“I don't know. That's the problem with beating people up and using violence.”

Duch explained that he wanted to check with field agents whether confessions were true or not, but that Brother Number Two, Nuon Chea, told him, “Comrade, you must think of the truth of the proletariat.”

“What did he mean by that?” asked the investigators.

“I still don't understand it. Nuon Chea is someone who doesn't like to explain. The main thing was that the proletarian class emerge victorious, no matter what. He wasn't thinking in terms of justice or injustice.”

Once the trial starts, Duch proves more reluctant to accept any fact that calls into question the performance of his duties:

“Did you really think there were so many KGB and CIA agents?” asks Judge Cartwright.

“They were probably forced to say that,” says Duch hesitantly, as though saying it will send him over the edge.

“Were all the prisoners permanently subjected to a climate of absolute terror?”

“Quite frankly, yes. Definitely.”

SOME OF THE CONSPIRACIES
that emerged from the confessions were staggeringly coarse. For example, one nineteen-year-old girl, so terrorized by Prak Khan that she soiled herself, was convicted of sabotage for having defecated in the soup served in the Khmer Rouge command's hospital, as well as in its operation unit. A number of fantastically implausible plots were discovered, such as one about tunnels burrowed into the flooded bowels of the alluvial plain beneath Phnom Penh, where hundreds, even thousands, of Vietnamese soldiers were supposedly holed up.

“Was the point of the violence to extract truthful confessions or ones that conformed to what you wanted to hear?” asks Judge Lavergne.

The former math teacher's statistics fluctuate. He has previously declared that, at best, only 20 percent of the confessions reflected the truth, and 10 percent of the denunciations. To this day, despite knowing how specious they are, how much they are travesties of genuine confessions, Duch still needs to assess their value. As long as they retain some fraction of truth, it doesn't matter whether it is 40 percent or 20 percent or 10 percent. But he does admit the following: “I never believed that they represented the truth. Even the Party's Standing Committee didn't completely believe them. The point of it all was to get rid of people who were in the way.”

Denouncing accomplices was crucial; Chandler reminds us that “you can't conspire by yourself.” A conspiracy needs coconspirators. Every secret police in every Communist dictatorship—and in non-Communist ones, too—has compelled people to denounce others; everyone drew up imaginary lists. In this regard, S-21 broke no new ground.

The court openly hates the very idea of denunciation. Given that at S-21 thousands were tortured and mercilessly killed, the court vehemently rejects the validity of the denunciations obtained there. But in other circumstances, the international legal establishment can be more accommodating. Mandatory denunciation (though obtained without torture) is a crucial element in many confessions made before international tribunals and, in these circumstances, lawyers find that their consciences remain quite untroubled by it. On the contrary, they actively encourage it. A defendant who pleads guilty to a UN tribunal is told to denounce his accomplices if he wants to win over the prosecutor and earn the judges' leniency. He isn't forced to name names under torture, of course, but if he wants to make the most of his guilty plea and obtain a lighter sentence, then he has no real choice but to comply. Rwanda's community courts, known as Gacaca courts, which have been so misguidedly praised over the past ten years, feed off of mass denunciations. Though they don't torture people, snitching is inextricably linked to confessions in Gacaca courts. The result is an all-consuming, rampant, and poisonous judicial operation that has produced more than a million suspects. Throughout Rwanda, the pressure to name one's accomplices has given rise to slander so great it would not be out of place in the archives of S-21. “Denunciation is another form of lying,” François Bizot, a survivor of imprisonment by the Khmer Rouge, says in court. International justice, it seems, only hates lying in certain circumstances.